Humphrey dismounts with the deliberate gravity of a man who has decided that dismounting is itself a deed of renown. He approaches the table, peers at Reginald's satchel — still failing to close — and, before Reginald can form an objection, plunges one gauntleted hand into its depths. Documents cascade. A wax seal rolls. Something that may have been a lunch escapes entirely. "There will be," Humphrey announces, rummaging with absolute certainty, "a provision. There is always a provision." Reginald watches with the expression of a man watching his house burn down from a considerable distance, knowing there is nothing to be done. The goat steps closer. "Ha," says Humphrey, and produces a scroll — ancient, water-stained, sealed with something that was once an official stamp and may now be a small moth. He reads. His expression does not change, which is somehow more alarming than if it had. "Appendix Seven. Sub-clause C. 'In the event that a knight of the realm shall arrive after the closing of the lists for reasons pertaining to divine portent, navigational misfortune, or the opinions of a horse.'" He straightens to his full height. "My horse," says Sir Humphrey, with magnificent dignity, "had opinions." A silence falls over the officials' table. Even the knitting pauses.